


La douleur exquise

by AvengedInk



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvengedInk/pseuds/AvengedInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>123 degrees fahrenheit, three months straight. It was a state record. And maybe Lexa wasn't made of the same stuff as everyone else, but she had grown up surrounded by mountains; a thick skin to match the crisp air and an affinity for snow. </p><p>Or, the summer she moves in with her dad and his new wife, Abigail Griffin, and falls desperately in love with her daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the shit summary - I wasn't really sure how much of the story I wanted to reveal, but I hope it hasn't put too much of a damper on the fic itself. This is my first multi-chapter. Updates will come at least weekly, probably more often than that. Any comments are appreciated.

It was: the heartbreaking pain of wanting someone you can’t have. 

By definition, at least. 

And Lexa thought she knew pain. Her mom was dead. She still felt the ghost of warm lips on her forehead every evening before bed. The smell of almost anything homemade made her sick, and she couldn't choke down breakfast most days. 

But, no, this kind of pain was different. 

It was: something that clawed at her chest and shook her to her core and no matter how she may distract herself, it was always in the back of her mind, made a thousand times worse with the whisper of a name or a glimpse of blonde hair. 

Her time was divided between missing someone who couldn't come back and missing someone under the same roof as her. 

Heartache was meant to be assuaged by hope; in its absence there really was no remedy. Her little infatuation (the word 'love' scared her) would never come to fruition. Maybe that's what hurt the most about it. 

The fact that it might be requited didn't matter. 

And, flipping through her language dictionary, she thought that maybe 'the heartbreaking pain of wanting someone you can’t have' wasn't such a bad translation. Lexa was a book junky and somewhat of a writer herself. Words had always been power to her - but translations were never as accurate as the original thing. 

La douleur exquise, the French called it. 

And the three words tasted so familiar on her tongue that she conceded; sometimes more words just diluted the overall meaning. 

~ 

Months earlier... 

*

Little raindrops pitter-pattered against the car window, Lexa's eyes following their every movement. They crawled down the glass and pooled at the very bottom where it met the metal of the door before slowly dissipating in the wind.

Her task was to count and mourn each and every one. It was tedious, but it kept her occupied, and her mind was off the fact that she was going to see her dad for the first time in a couple of years and -- 

Damn. 

Her uncle Gustus was in the driver's seat, humming to himself impatiently, dark eyes occasionally wandering to the backseat and catching hers before flitting away. 

He was imposing if you didn't know him. He stood well over 6ft and was unapologetically and very obviously tattooed. Face unshaven and full of lines. Gus's eyes were scrutinizing, but kind. 

He was maybe the person she loved most in this world, the only challenger of that title sitting shotgun with black combat boots muddying the dashboard. 

Anya was Gus's daughter through and through, even if it wasn't as outright upon first glance. 

She was several years older than Lexa and rather proud of that little fact. Tall, lean, a dark complexion. Her hair was dyed blonde, the left side of her head was shaved, and her ears were pierced around seven times each. The perks of being the daughter of a tattoo artist. 

Anya was brash and sarcastic in all the right ways, and maybe two months ago Lexa would have spent the same days-long car ride bantering with her cousin, but she didn't have it in her anymore. 

Lexa's mom was 35 years old when she died. She was driving to her second job after a double-shift at Grounders when a drunk driver hit her from the side. She had fought to get back to her only daughter. The paramedics had resuscitated Anna Woods twice by the time the ambulance reached the hospital. It hadn't mattered.

A cold night in May when Lexa got the phone call, because Vermont seemed to take awhile to warm up in spring, and uncle Gus and Anya flew up from Alabama to stay with Lexa the remainder of her junior year. 

But, no, Gus could not take care of two children on a tattoo artist's salary, and, yes, Lexa could almost visibly see the guilt eating away at him. 

Andrew Phillip Woods was the in-office governor of the beautiful state of Alabama. The last time Lexa had seen him, his brown hair was greying, his eyes were light blue and his skin was fair enough to contrast with hers when they stood side-by-side. Lexa liked to think the only thing she inherited from him was her last name. 

Her childhood was a busy, lower-class neighborhood, the diner her mom worked at, grass stains on her jeans. It was a lot of sleepovers with Lincoln because her mom had to stay late at the laundromat, or play substitute-bartender for the local bar because God knows they needed the extra money. But it was also dancing in the livingroom as the afternoon sunlight crept in, mostly to a Marvin Gaye album on vinyl, and stepping on her mom's toes a lot, and curling up in the same bed together after a nightmare because sometimes they both had them. 

Andrew Woods was the politician she saw sometimes on spring break, but only every couple years when the press wasn't down his throat. 

She heard him, sometimes, on the phone with her mother, Anna's voice unnaturally flinty, Andrew's pleading. 

And all the other encounters were by chance. His face on a billboard or a commercial, always the same fake smile.

So she grew up, for the most part, in his absence. And there were a couple pity parties along the way, but she and Linc knew plenty of other kids without dads and all in all she was glad he kept his distance. 

Lexa was shaken from her reverie when Gus hung a sharp turn and she started to recognize the neighborhood. Large, white columns and dark red brick. Immaculately trimmed gardens and wrap-around porches. Front doors with polished metal knockers because she knew goddamn well that nobody who lived here ever had to lift a finger for themselves. All of them were fairly old money, silver-spoon politicians or businessmen, and all of them were just about as right-wing conservative as they could tip before falling over. 

Her uncle jerked the steering wheel to the left and roughly braked on the curb in front of the largest house of them all. The fuckin' governor's house. Painted up a striking navy-blue, the wooden porch practically shining. Lexa scoffed as she caught sight of a welcome mat. 

Gus cleared his throat and turned to face her. 

"I - Alexandra... You know I'd go with you, but-" 

"But you haven't seen him since the family cut you off and you don't want to break the streak now. Going on twenty years, right? It's fine," her voice was gritty and harsh but she wasn't sorry for it.

And then his eyes were brimming with tears and Anya wasn't sneering at her for once and Lexa found herself getting choked up all of a sudden. 

Anya's hand was on her shoulder. 

"Skype every week, 'kay? And you can call me any time. Or text. Or whatever. Just, don't go getting all big-headed now that you're rich." 

And she started fixing the sleeve on Lexa's button-up because she didn't know what else to do with her hands, and that's how Lexa knew she was uncomfortable with the display of emotion, but Anya didn't avert her eyes and that was an 'I love you' in itself. 

Cue awkward, leaning-over-the-console hugs before Lexa stepped out of Gus's mustang and forced herself to walk away. 

One foot in front of the other. 

She couldn't bring herself to turn around when she heard the rev of the engine, or the put-put of the exhaust, and it wasn't until the screech of the tires was barely audible that she allowed herself a long, shuddering breath. 

They only lived an hour south, now that they weren't babysitting her in Vermont. There was Skype. Social media. She wasn't completely alone, even if it felt like it.

The front door was white and sort of imperial in size, she supposed it did its job in intimidating her. She blatantly ignored the silver knocker and raised a tanned fist, rapping her knuckles several times on the wood, which hurt more than she thought it would. 

Her arm was retracted. 

She could feel her heart in her ears. 

The door was wrenched open very swiftly considering it must've weighed quite a bit, and it revealed a dark-skinned woman with scars around her eyes and a stern look to her face. 

"Can I help you?" 

Quick to the point, Lexa thought. 

"Uh, I'm here to see Andrew Woods. O-or to just be here, I guess. My name's Lexa. Alexandra." 

There was the stutter, and the quiet way it came out, and what was left of Lexa's confidence withered more. But the middle-aged woman softened - not noticably, but there was less tension in her shoulders, her forehead no longer creased. 

"Alexandra, come in. My name is Indra. I am your father's housekeeper, so I will be here daily." 

And she was ushered into the house. Indra asked her if she had any other luggage, and Lexa replied no, that her backpack was all she had, before being led across the entryway at a startling pace. 

The room opened up into a kitchen and a dining room, and there was a tall man with his back to them, eating a sandwich over the sink. 

Indra cleared her throat, loudly. 

Andrew Woods turned around, sandwich in-hand, and his face slackened in momentary surprise before a smile engulfed his features.

Sure, he looked older, but not by much. He hadn't shaved in a few days, but overall he seemed well put-together in a navy polo to match his house and a pair of dark slacks. 

His smile was just as charming in person as it was on television, not that Lexa would ever say so out loud. 

"I didn't expect you until later, Lexa." He was still smiling a little too warmly. He stepped closer, as if to go in for a hug, before hesitating and dropping back to lean comfortably against the counter. 

Lexa peered around the open space. 

Black granite countertops. Hardwood flooring. Mile-high ceilings. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. 

"You can call me Alexandra." 

Andrew nodded, slowly, his smile slightly less radiant. "Of course. I expect the drive went well?" 

He was making small talk because he didn't know what else to say. They had nothing in common. And politicians? They could talk small for days. 

"Well, I'm obviously not dead." She bit back, arms folding across her chest and she shifted her weight to the side. 

Andrew seemed at a loss for words, but then there was the noise of a door slamming in the foyer, and the smell of perfume hit Lexa's nose before a woman with dirty-blonde hair appeared. 

Everything about her screamed authority. There was a Prada handbag on her shoulder and Lexa would bet all the money she didn't have that she'd paid over $100 for her haircut, but the hint of a smile she wore seemed genuine enough and there was a stark white doctor's coat tucked into the crease of her arm. Lexa had always admired doctors. Maybe even aspired to be one, if college hadn't been so far out of reach. 

And then the woman was in front of her dad, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek, and since when did her dad have a girlfriend? Since when did he even have time to date? 

"Alexandra, I would like you to meet Abigail Griffin, my wife."

Woah. 

Wife. 

So that happened. 

Abigail was quick to jump in with a, "Please, just call me Abby," and a half-smile to accompany the dark circles under her eyes. 

The power-couple, each with demanding jobs, and maybe living here would be practically like living alone, which didn't sound so bad. 

Before Lexa could respond, a voice called down the stairs, which Lexa had noticed started near the front door, a mahogany banister curling up to follow the steps. 

"Mom, are you home?"

And Lexa's dad was looking sheepish as Abby called out, "In the kitchen!"

Lexa's brain wasn't computing. A secret wife? Okay, maybe not secret, it's not like Lexa had googled her dad anytime in the past few years. Now there was another daughter? 

Then there was strawberry shampoo to combat Abby's strong perfume, and a girl around her own age skirted past her to the fridge, mumbling a "Hello," at Andrew.

The girl had light blonde hair that was pulled back into a lazy braid. Her loose-fitting grey t-shirt had 'fuck it' embellished on the front, and she was sporting a ratty pair of plaid pajama bottoms. She emerged from the fridge with a can of root beer and caught Lexa's gaze for the first time. 

It was like being submerged in ice water. Lexa had never felt sparks from simple eye contact before, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Maybe it was the ocean or the sky or a little bit of both in the girl's eyes. There was definitely a question there. 'Who the fuck are you, why are you in my house?' And it was gratifying to know she wasn't the only one left out of the loop.

Abby licked her lips nervously before sending a pointed glare at her husband. 

"Alexandra, this is my daughter, Clarke." 

Clarke. 

It was an uncommon name. She liked it. And somehow, it fit. Clarke, on her part, was looking even more confused at the introduction. 

There was a long period of silence, where Abby appeared to be struggling with what to say, and Andrew was ever-unhelpful, and Lexa was tired from being in the car for two days and miffed because not only did she have to live with her deadbeat dad, now she was stuck with two complete strangers. One of which was probably the stuck-up head cheerleader of the most expensive private school in the area. 

"Clarke," an eyeroll, "I'm Lexa. Your estranged step-sister you've probably never heard of until now." 

Lexa stayed, standing still and quite awkwardly as Clarke and Abby had a silent argument with their eyes. 

An eyebrow quirk. 'Why the fuck didn't I know about her?'

A shoulder shrug. 'How was I supposed to tell you?'

Then the harsh glare that didn't really need interpretation, followed by Abby's quiet sigh of defeat. 

Clarke shifted, a hand on her hip, and eyed Lexa, sizing her up. Probably taking in her torn jeans and her scuffed converse, and fuck, maybe Lexa had a chip on her shoulder but at least she grew up humble. 

"Okay, Blondie, done checking me out?" Was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Clarke scoffed before throwing another dirty look at Abby and storming past Lexa, back to her room. 

Lexa was quick to follow, finding her own way down the upstairs hallway and peeking through doorways until she came across an empty bedroom. 

She closed the door, dumped her backpack on the floor and collapsed in the bed. It was unsettling how spacious the room was. Who needed this much room to sleep, anyway? 

Her iPod was out of her pocket and her headphones were in her ears, her thumb pressing 'Shuffle' before the screen went black again. 

Lexa drifted off to Lynn Gunn's voice, thoughts jumbled in the back of her head, but she was sure of one thing. 

Clarke Griffin could be as devastatingly beautiful as she damn well wanted, but that didn't mean Lexa had to like her.


	2. Chapter 2

"An evil step-sister, Clarkey? Are you serious?" Octavia's voice came through the phone static-free and full of amusement. 

"I don't know, O, who's to say she won't shank me in my sleep?!" Clarke was splayed across her reading chair, legs folded on the armrest, iPhone on speaker. She was comfortable enough not to move but her bare legs kept sticking to the leather, and she could practically hear Octavia's eyeroll. 

"Because the world's never seen a tall, dark, rebellious teenager with some snark. You don't even know her." 

"That's the point! My mom didn't bother informing me Andrew had a kid. Not a clue. Zilch." A pause, to catch her breath. "Wait. Tall and dark? Are you fucking stalking my house?"

"Not everyone has an obsession with you, Princess. I just know your type." 

Clarke was incredulous. "You're not - I don't... I'm not interested in her!" 

The younger Blake sibling's laugh echoed through the audio outlet. "You've only been talking about her for the past ten minutes. Okay, okay. I'll join the Clarke Griffin trash-talk squad. On a scale of one to my brother, how ugly is she?"

Clarke groaned, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples, brushing back whispy, white-blonde curls from her forehead. 

"That's another problem. I'm pretty sure she tracked in half the ghetto on her shoes and I don't think she's showered in days, but she still manages to look like a goddamn supermodel." 

"Oooh. Paint a picture for me." 

The blonde sighed, but gave in, because Octavia now seemed genuinely interested in the conversation and she needed to vent some more. 

"Uh, brown hair? It was really curly but she had it up. She was pretty olive-toned, I don't even know how she possibly shares DNA with Andrew. Maybe like an inch or so taller than me. Her eyes were really pretty, though. Green. Very green." 

And then there was another voice cutting through the call, slightly deeper than Octavia's but teasing nonetheless. 

"Gayyyyyyy. I know you're bi, Clarke, but you sure this chick isn't turning you full-fledged homo?" 

The artist fiddled around with her phone for a second, turning it off speaker and pressing it to her ear, hissing, "Shut up! You know my mom doesn't know about that. And certainly not Governor Homo-Hater Extraordinaire."

There were some noises in the background and Clarke was about 99% positive they were fighting for possession of Octavia's cellphone. 

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Listen, I have to go before Bell throws a fit and - I SWEAR TO GOD, REYES, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY ICE CREAM OR -" the call disconnected. 

Another frustrated sigh because yes, those were her best friends. But she rolled out of her position with a fond smile on her face. 

*

Nothing on television and she didn't feel like marathoning season ten of America's Next Top Model again. Clarke cursed her mother, who had been unwilling to buy her a mini-fridge ("You'll never see the light of day if you hoarde food up there!"), and reluctantly padded out to the hallway. 

The house was seemingly empty. Framed wedding photos were hung carefully on the walls, and the upstairs was fitted with soft, beige carpeting, but other than that it lacked the warmth of her old home. 

She missed the montage of polaroids tacked all over the walls and ceilings and furniture, mostly depicting her and her dad. Often on a camping trip or by the river, always smiles stretching their faces. 

When Jake was gone they were all taken down and stuffed away in a box somewhere. If that weren't enough, her mom abruptly transferred hours away to Mt. Weather four days after the funeral. Some bullshit about money but Clarke knew it was because Abby couldn't work in the same hospital her husband had died in. 

Less than a year had passed and Clarke still harbored a lot of ill feelings. Mostly betrayal. Her life had been uprooted and her mom had married a politician, out of everyone, some guy who hid behind his smug smile and tailored suits and publicly shamed every single one of Jake Griffin's values. 

It made her want to put her foot through the wall. 

Her solace was her calendar hanging above her bed. It was a countdown. Today was June 25th, and this time next year she would be home free, because she would be damned if she spent any longer than that in the shadows of her closet. 

Clarke was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed Lexa until she was several feet away from the girl, whose back was turned. The blonde came to a halt, her fuzzy pink socks muffling her steps. 

"Hey." 

Lexa jumped about three feet off the ground and almost fell on her ass, and Clarke fought the urge to laugh. Angry - right. She ought to be pretty pissed off at Lexa right now.

The brunette's gaze pierced her a moment, Lexa's wide eyes flashing in alarm before hardening into something unreadable. 

"No one's here, you know. My mom works crazy hours and your dad's probably off with Moira organizing some campaign speech or party or whatever." Clarke had surprised herself by opting for a softer tone of voice, and apparently she'd surprised Lexa as well, judging by the way her lips quirked and her jaw set in discomfort. 

"Moira?" Lexa's voice was controlled.

For the first time, there was a ripple of sympathy for the taller girl, because she was a carbon copy of the Clarke of six months before: still oblivious to Andrew Woods' web of politics. 

"Andrew's campaign manager. She'll insist you call her Ms. Birch, though personally I prefer Ms. Bitch. Just Moira around the 'rents." The artist offered a small smile. 

There. 

Clarke Griffin had extended the olive branch. 

She was not to be held accountable if Lexa stayed her stoic, disagreeable self. 

Andrew's daughter stood straight-backed and silent for several beats, almond-shaped eyes untrusting. She appeared to chew every word very carefully before spitting it out. "I shall keep that in mind." 

Despite the monotonous way of reply, the blonde took it in stride; maybe Lexa hadn't grasped her olive branch, but she hadn't whacked Clarke over the head with it either, and that could be viewed as progress. 

*

Her dad and her had a secret spot. It had been maintained over the years because Clarke had always had that fight-or-flight mentality, and Abby had always found a way to trigger it. 

And maybe she was on a different roof, the late-afternoon air muggier than ideal, the tiles beside her not bearing the weight of Jake Griffin, but the sky was still the same and that was all she needed. 

The blonde's tank top bunched uncomfortably around her shoulder blades and the soft skin on the back of her knees itched in protest, but Clarke's blue eyes were lost in the clouds above her head. 

That one was a duck, sort of. The beak was curled too much and one leg petered off a little early, but it most definitely resembled a duck. 

She started at the sound of a window being wrenched open, a colorful string of profanities reaching her ears before the tips of Lexa's fingers appeared over the edge of the roof, near her right foot. 

She took a second to admire the chipped black fingernail polish that Lexa was probably meaning to repaint before a puff of hair and a red face bobbed into her line of sight. Green eyes locked onto hers in a silent plea for help. 

Clarke groaned in annoyance and shifted to grasp Lexa's forearm, hefting her onto the roof. 

A hiss of pain came unbidden from her mouth as her elbow scraped the rough texture of the black tiles, and the brunette once again captured her gaze, and wow because Clarke hadn't seen Lexa so close before and her eyes had little flecks of gold in them that sort of shimmered and glinted and, wow. Lexa was gorgeous. 

She was suddenly aware that she'd been staring too long, and returned to her previous positioning, hoping the dusky shadows of 5:00pm hid the blush on her cheeks. 

And, thankfully, Lexa had no comment. 

"How'd you find me?" 

"It wasn't hard, Clarke. Your legs were dangling right above my window." 

Lexa emphasized the consenents in her name, and it was somehow slightly flattering, and Clarke wasn't really disturbed over the fact that her secret spot was compromised. 

Several minutes passed where the air was dead heavy on her chest and the mosquitoes were launching an attack on her thighs and the sun was sinking closer to the horizon. 

How does one strike up a conversation with Lexa Woods? 'Where are you from?' 'How old are you?' and 'How 'bout that weather?' presented themselves. She knew they wouldn't inspire much of an interaction, but what was the harm in trying? 

"Do you see that star, off to the left of the sun, right over that cloud?" Lexa spoke in a hushed voice, delicately gesturing in the direction she had described. 

"The duck cloud?" Was out of Clarke's mouth before she could think better of it, and a warm feeling spread through her body when her words' were met with a low chuckle. 

"Yes." 

The blonde squinted into the distance and she almost immediately saw a pinprick of light in the sky, so still on its perch above the cloud that it couldn't have been an aircraft. 

"I've never seen a star before nightfall." 

She had adopted Lexa's quiet way of speech, not wanting to ruin the moment. 

"That's because it's not a star. It's a planet; Jupiter. Earth is tilted just right on its axis, the perfect point in rotation, that we are able to see it." 

And the governor's daughter's eyes fixed the planet with an endearing gaze, light washing across her cheeks, long eyelashes casting shadows. Her voice was morose, but tender, and Clarke laid as still as possible, recognizing the fragility of the moment. 

It ended on its own as Lexa came back to Earth. 

As soon as she realized that she felt out of place on the roof, Clarke feigned exhaustion and crawled back down the gutter. She was shaken by her new perspective of Lexa, whom she'd only known two days, and for the first time in a year she had no desire to talk to Octavia. 

It was one of those precious things that was meant to be locked in a box and guarded dutifully, she was sure of it.

Clarke locked the sliding screen door and made a beeline for the kitchen to heat up some lasagna. Her picquing curiosity about the brunette was stored in the back of her mind. 

She was 17 years old, she had plans to move out in year, her social life wasn't lacking, and her small endeavor into the mystery of Lexa Woods was not about to become the high point of her summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Half-lidded eyes traced back and forth, back and forth as dust particles floated idly past. Her window was wide open, a luxury she was unused to, as Anya had always complained when the morning sunlight filtered in. Lexa was an early riser. 

The usual chatter of birds had been replaced with an eery silence, punctuated by the occasional slam of a car door.

Lexa was flat on her back and basking in the warmth of the light creeping steadily up her body as the sun climbed higher in the sky. It wasn't quite at her eyes yet. Her sheets were in disarray, hands continually fisting the soft material. Egyptian cotton? It was smooth on her skin. 

There was a brief curiosity at the vacancy of activity outside, the house's stillness, the exhaustion in her bones. 

Sunday. 

That was today. 

And, she thought, maybe even politicians enjoyed a couple extra hours of rest and some pancakes and eggs.

But that begged the question: did her father go to church?

Lexa had never gone with him in her brief visits, never seen him express any interest in religion, but he was "campaigning on the side of God" as was advertised frequently, so who knew? 

Her toes curled in annoyance as there was a quick succession of knocks on her door by Indra, signalling breakfast. The housekeeper was strict and unyielding to Lexa's quiet request to stay upstairs for the meal yesterday, though the woman had not forced food down her throat, much to Lexa's relief. 

With a groan, she rolled out of bed and tugged on a pair of grey joggers and a loose white v-neck, deft hands working her curls into an immaculate ponytail. 

She took an extra minute to lace up her red Nike trainers. The only time she'd been out of the house was early yesterday morning, pre-dawn light shading the sky, a gentle breeze offering some refuge from the choking humidity in the air. Lexa was accustomed to jogging several miles before her day began, and exploring the neighborhood ruled over another awkward Skype session with Anya. 

Lexa sneered at the overly large, staged family portraits as she passed them. She did let her eyes wander over some of the older pictures of Clarke and Abby, and bit her lip at the absence of a father-figure. 

So the blonde grew up without one? 

Stargazing on the roof as dusk painted the sky different colors, as well as her small moment of vulnerability crossed Lexa's mind. She had remained long after Clarke had excused herself; she was frozen in the wake of being searched by wide, blue eyes, slightly terrified at the way her forearm had tingled at the blonde's touch. 

A large part of Lexa felt as if she had given the younger Griffin far too much of herself. The other, more logical part reasoned that she had only accepted Clarke's implied truce and lessoned the blonde in astronomy. No harm done. 

Careful feet led her down the stairs, and she rounded the corner to face the kitchen and the overpowering scent of bacon; voices reached her ears before the dining room came into sight. 

Andrew Woods was at the head of the polished table, tucking into his food as he appeared to listen raptly to the conversation. Abby was to his right, Clarke to his left, and the full plate next to the blonde left Lexa no room for contemplation. She slid into the cold chair with a fleeting glance from Clarke and a mouth-full-of-food grin from her father. Her hands remained at her sides, the thought of the food in front of her making her stomach churn. 

"Have you spoken to Wells, dear? Thelonious phoned yesterday and informed me of his scholarship." 

The topic seemed forced, which Clarke's tight-lipped smile a moment later affirmed. 

"No, mom. We haven't really talked since... A long time. Just please stop asking, okay?" Clarke exhaled uncomfortably as Abby's brown eyes shot her a disapproving look. Cerulean eyes locked onto hers, and Lexa tried to convey sympathy. 

"Can Octavia and Raven come over tomorrow? I haven't really seen them since school got out," the blonde questioned before Abby could get another word in. 

"Sherwood is crawling with the media, lately. I'm not sure that's a good idea." 

Fiery eyes met her mother's as Clarke bit out, "They won't let up until elections, and those aren't until November! If I'm going to be held prisoner I want my friends to be able to come over." 

"Prisoner? Over-dramatic much, Clarke?" 

Lexa was feeling more and more like she was intruding, but before it could escalate further, Andrew cut in. 

"I could send a car to pick up Octavia and Raven. Really, let's not make it an issue. Every teenage girl has friends." He let his gaze travel uncertainly over Lexa. 

Clarke smirked at Abby in triumph and went back to murdering her pancakes, hair spilling loosely over her shoulders, legs crossed under the table and revealing a set of pink bunny slippers. Lexa didn't miss the cutting glare the older Griffin aimed at her father. 

Andrew's cellphone started ringing before he could comment on Lexa's lack of an appetite. 

"Governor Woods speaking," and then there was a muffled but obviously agitated voice on the other end in rapid-fire. Her father's brow creased. Lexa wondered at Clarke's disinterest at the exchange; the blonde was fixated on her plate. 

This was a commonality, evidently. 

After a couple murmurs of understanding, Andrew ended the phone call, fingers thrumming the tabletop, grey-blue eyes suddenly piercing Lexa.

"Why were you out of the house yesterday morning?" 

His questions usually came over-eager, but this one was cold and inquiring, and Lexa bit the side of her cheek anxiously. 

"I went for a run." Short, concise. 

"Did Indra tell you that you could leave?" And Lexa's blood boiled because that was Andrew asserting his control, and as far as she was concerned he didn't have any right to it.

"I wasn't aware I needed permission," through gritted teeth. Green clashed on grey violently in challenge, though Lexa was aware of the prying eyes of the girl next to her.

"Well your little slip-up threw a bone to the press. Want to read the headlines? Go ahead." His iPhone was slid across the table, browser open to an article. 

'Marriage in trouble after Governer's secret daughter turns up on doorstep' in bold. Attached were several close-ups of Lexa outside the mansion. 

She carefully locked the screen and slid it back. 

"Like it's my fault I'm a secret. You know I would've preferred to stay with Gus - you wouldn't send him child support," she said angrily. 

Andrew's dark eyebrows drew together in incredulity. 

"He disowned the family! I'm not going to hand over money! That I've worked hard for, by the way, and when you disregard the rules you place my position in jeopardy."

Abby interrupted with a soft hand on Andrew's shoulder, before turning to the brunette. "Lexa-" 

"Alexandra," she snarled, her jaw clenching. 

"Alexandra," the older woman began pointedly. "I understand you didn't mean for this to occur. It can be hard living under the eye of the media, it will take time to adjust. For now, you need to ask before going anywhere, or there will be repercussions." Her tone left no room for argument. 

Clarke was eyeing her with concern, and to Lexa's dismay, a measure of pity. 

"Fine." 

The screech of wood on wood as she rose abruptly from her chair, her utensils lying untouched, her food cold. Three sets of eyes followed her exit. 

Safely in the confines of her bedroom, she fumed. Clarke had been right - she was being held prisoner. Anything she did or said in public was free to be scrutinized and twisted and even though she couldn't care less about Andrew's reelection campaign, it bothered her. 

The space around her was barren.

A mostly-empty dresser and closet. Her queen-sized bed, sheets folded and uncreased, Indra's work. A wooden desk colored deep red sat in the far corner, the brunette's laptop disrupting the symmetry. There was a nightstand on which perched a digital clock with large, illuminated numbers: 9:54. Lexa missed her books desperately. 

With an exaggerated sigh, Lexa moved to sit in her desk chair, the leather supple and welcoming. She started up her laptop and opened Skype. 

"Hey, dork," Anya's voice filtered through the speaker and filled Lexa with the sense of familiarity. 

Her cousin's face was mature, but betrayed her youth. Anya's hair was damp and tussled, swept to the side. Thin lips were pulled into a signature smirk. Jawline sharp, cheekbones pronounced, dark black eyeliner. 

Lexa smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's kind of short, I've been a bit uninspired. I have no idea where I'm going with this. At all. Suggestions are appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

There was a stiff air to the room after Lexa stormed off, made worse by the silence. Andrew excused himself to take another verbal lashing from Moira, and Abby didn't seem to know how to diffuse the tension. Clarke absentmindedly played with her fork. 

"Have you given any thought to what schools you'll be applying to this autumn?" 

Ah, wasn't that the million dollar question? Abigail Griffin had found at least a dozen different ways to deliver it over her daughter's junior year, refusing to be satisfied with 'I'll just apply to them all!' Clarke sighed and laid her fork beside her plate, bringing her right hand up to her forehead, thumb rubbing circles in her temple. 

"Of course I've thought about it. I mean, I'll send out applications to loads. What about UA?" Her response was tired. If she was being honest, Clarke would rather be as far away as possible from all the political bullshit, but if her mom was paying for university she was willing to stay close and keep up appearances. 

Abby pursed her lips. "Your grades could get you far better than UA. What of Amherst? Brown, Northwestern? Why not John Hopkins? They have the best pre-med program in the country, Clarke." 

The blonde fidgeted in her seat and bit her lip, swallowing her comment that no, her ambition was not to become a doctor, that as much as she loved to help people she'd spent half her childhood without her mom because Abby was sleeping off a 48-hour shift or too much of a zombie to cook brunch, the intensity of which was tripled after Jake died. Clarke dreamed of a studio apartment and fun nights out with her friends who didn't know her as the uptight bitch who studied 24/7, and maybe a life where painting wasn't just a hobby. She wanted a family someday, one that she could stare at without lifeless eyes and hollow cheeks, and go to every single one of her kids' soccer games, and pack them lunches with little notes inside. But more than all that, Clarke Griffin aspired to be wholly unlike her mother in every way possible. Future be damned. And everything came rushing back up again to the tip of her tongue and she steadily met Abby's hard eyes in a way she hadn't all morning, willing the words out.

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

Jaw coming unglued, mouth open. 

The disappointment as she shut her mouth tight like she had all her life, yet again, and broke eye contact. 

"I guess it depends on where I get accepted," was the safest answer she could think of that wasn't completely acqueiscing to Abby's demands. 

The doctor tsk-tsked. "You have a cumulative 4.2 GPA. I don't think you'll be declined. You really should give more regard to your future, Clarke. I expect a decision by the end of the summer." 

It was formal and assertive and quite possibly Abby's only known way to parent, but the unfairness of it all still struck Clarke. She excused herself to her room, plodding dejectedly up the stairs. 

She stopped halfway down the hall at the sound of Lexa's voice through a closed door. The urge to eavesdrop overrode her inhibitions, and she pressed an ear to the white-painted wood. 

"-don't know how I'll survive. He's just as fake as he's always been," spoken softly but with conviction in the low, controlled (yet feminine) voice that Clarke recognized as Lexa's. 

Whoever the brunette was speaking to responded, but it was muffled by the door and impossible to make out. 

"I'm not loaded, my father is, and who's to say he doesn't kick me to the curb right after graduation? Mom used to have arguments with him over child support, Anya. There's no way he's housing me or paying college tuition."

Anya. 

An unfamiliar feeling clawed at her gut, and it took Clarke a moment to decipher it. 

Jealousy? 

No way. No fucking way. What did she have to be jealous of? Anya could be an old friend for all she knew, and what if she was a girlfriend? It didn't matter. For fuck's sake, Lexa probably wasn't even gay. Scowling, Clarke stepped away from the door and had a mini panic-attack when she nearly tripped into the wall. 

First rule of eavesdropping: don't be a klutz. 

The artist continued to her bedroom, closing the door quietly. She sat on her bed, back resting against the headboard, and texted Octavia.

'Governor is sending someone to pick you up. My mom might be a bitch though.'

'Since when is your mom not a bitch?' 

Another message came a second later. 

'Fuckin' A, do we get a limo?!' 

Clarke rolled her eyes. 

'Because a limousine isn't suspicious at all. I dunno what car it is.'

'Then how do I know we aren't getting picked up by a serial killer?' 

'Use your powers of perception. I gotta go, O. Project for AP Art.'

'Who tf has homework over summer? And this is Raven, by the way (; See you tomorrow, Princess.' 

*

Indra's knock was what brought Clarke into awareness, blinking slowly as her vision cleared.

Monday morning, her least favorite time to be alive. 

The teenager could suffer through weekend breakfasts because Andrew was always there, functioning as her part-time buffer because her mother saved face around him; Mondays were another story. Andrew Woods was long gone to the office, fresh suit donning his broad shoulders, tie perfectly symmetrical, a spritz of cologne and some hair gel. But Abigail Griffin, work odd hours as she may, always had Monday off. 

Fortunately, her friends were due over that afternoon, and Lexa's presence might influence Abby to stay downstairs.

Clarke rubbed the sleepiness from her eyes and moved to get up, stumbling as her feet tangled in the sheets and landing sharply on her side. Her carpet was cushy and clean and warmed by the sun leaking through her blinds. She curled into herself and briefly wondered at the idea of falling back asleep, before she rose and dressed. 

A pair of fitted blue jeans and purple converse. She shrugged into an awfully pretentious shirt depicting Salvador Dali eating a bowl of 'surreal' for breakfast, but chuckled at it in her mirror anyway. She decided to leave her hair down because it was falling past her shoulders in perfect waves and she could appreciate a good hair day when she saw one. 

Clarke trudged down the stairs, intent on finding and consuming the first edible piece of food she saw before Abby emerged. She gnashed her teeth in frustration, because who the hell should have to creep around their own house in fear of their incredibly overbearing mother at this time of morning? 

The white soles of her shoes met the tile of the kitchen floor, and alert green eyes shocked Clarke from across the counter island, placating her. 

The blonde had frozen in her ninja-stance, and Lexa's gaze appraised her, lighting up in amusement. 

"Trying to avoid me?" The brunette said, the left side of her mouth curling up ever-so-slightly. 

Clarke felt her face heat up.

"Not you," she whispered, eyes flashing sideways conspiratorially, hands gesturing wildly in the direction of the master bedroom. She grinned as Lexa's mouth made a small 'o', and the older girl fake-admonished Clarke with a teasing shake of her head. She hadn't seen playful Lexa before. 

The artist exaggeratedly tip-toed to the fridge and poured herself a bowl of cereal, giggling lightly when Lexa eyed her shirt and quirked a brow. 'Are you kidding me?' 

They ate in comfortable silence, and for the first time Clarke considered the fact that Lexa might be friend-material. What a revelation. 

As they made their way back upstairs, Lexa mirrored Clarke's shoulders-scrunched, elbows-out, not-daring-to-breathe stealth walk, and even though she was doing it mockingly, Clarke found it endearing. 

It was awkward, a moment, in Lexa's doorway. They weren't going to hug it out, but a simple 'See ya' seemed rude, out of place. 

"Uh, well. I'm going to have some friends over in a couple hours," Clarke was chewing nervously on her bottom lip, unsure of what to say. "If we're too loud, let us know, 'kay?" 

Oh, no. 

That did not just come out of her mouth. 

She had meant to invite the brunette to hang out, even if it would be kind of weird, and God. 

Lexa looked affronted, but her face quickly turned apathetic. "Okay," she said, before disappearing into her room, door closing silently. Clarke had to resist the urge to bang her head against it.

*

Clarke was relegated to her chair, as Octavia and Raven had completely taken over her bed. They had wrestled at least two times since arriving, and the blonde's room was a disaster zone, blankets and pillows strewn across the floor, backpacks dumped unceremoniously near the entrance. 

Octavia Blake had dark, raven-like hair that she normally wore wild, befitting her personality. She was short in stature but probably the loudest person Clarke knew. She had an older brother named Bellamy who was a freshman at UA and also worked full-time to support himself and Octavia. He was outgoing like his sister; a natural leader. Bellamy was charming and funny and unquestionably attractive, and Clarke would've considered him as a boyfriend if he wasn't like a brother to her as well. 

Raven Reyes was brash and unapologetic. She had chocolate hair, tanned skin and calloused hands. Raven worked at a local car shop, and her heart was set on being an engineer. She was from a sketchy part of town and her mom was an alcoholic, but Clarke only found out because Raven needed a place to stay the night once when Octavia was unavailable. She was proud, and very stubborn, and if Clarke wasn't her friend she might've hated her. 

Another thing: the two were obviously in love with each other. They just hadn't realized it. 

The blonde doubled over laughing as Raven launched an attack on Octavia's ribs, determined to win the tickle-war they had started earlier in the year. Octavia squealed and writhed and fell off the bed, Raven landing on her in a heap. 

Once they were situated back on the bed, a mischievious glint formed in Octavia's eyes that Clarke knew all-too-well. 

"Soooo, Clarkey. When do we get to meet your girlfriend?"

The artist groaned loudly and flipped her off. "Lexa is my STEPSISTER. You take away the first four letters and it reads 'sister'. As in, incest. Gross, O." 

"Dude, it's not like you're related. But seriously, I wanna meet her! I bet she's hot." Octavia fixed Clarke with her best puppy-dog look. 

"I don't want to bother her. I was weird earlier and I think she's mad at me," Clarke said, grimacing at the memory, and Raven scoffed. 

"You're always weird, it's just a part of the Clarke Griffin package. Actually, though, I have an ice-breaker for you. There's this party," and the blonde made a noise of protest, because she's been to one of Raven's parties and it ranked as one of the worst experiences of her life. 

Raven rolled her eyes. "It's at someone else's house. Some guy named Finn. You should invite Lexa." 

And Clarke thought about it, because she wouldn't mind getting drunk, and she especially wouldn't mind seeing Lexa drunk. It was so out of character. 

"When is it?" 

A toothy grin was flashed her way. "Tonight!" 

The artists huffed, and sent a pointed glare at her friends. Not only was it difficult to sneak out of the Governor's house, it was almost impossible on such short notice, and Lexa would never agree to this anyway. 

"There's absolutely no way I'm going to that party. Or inviting Alexandra Woods, who probably hates me, by the way." 

*

"So, what do you say?" 

Clarke sported an award-winning smile, blue eyes pleading. She was standing inelegantly in the spot of her earlier disgrace, feet shuffling in place, wringing her hands. The Governor's daughter was staring back at her, eyes like frozen jade. She was surprisingly not flummoxed by the pair of teenagers behind Clarke who were gawking at Lexa and not even trying to be subtle about it. 

"This is a horrible idea," she said, and the artist's heart sunk to the bottom of her rib cage because she really really didn't want Lexa to dislike her, for whatever reason. 

But then the brunette's shoulders relaxed as she leaned against her doorframe, and she adopted a coy smile. 

"I'm in." 

*

Clarke found herself cursing the Alabaman sun as it slowly descended, because the plan was to leave at 10pm and they couldn't do that if it was still light outside. 

Octavia and Raven had left much earlier with a promise to be parked a block down the street at dark in Raven's red Jeep -- the mechanic had volunteered to be the group's DD, assuring that she was only offering her sobriety so she could take embarrassing pictures when Lexa glared at her untrustingly. 

Luckily, when late-evening rolled around the sky was dusky and Andrew had bid them goodnight after a tense dinner. The house was too high-security to exit through the front door, so they opted to climb through Lexa's window, over the roof, and into the front yard. 

Lexa took the lead, hefting herself onto the overhanging shingles, Clarke exerting tremendous self-control in not staring at the brunette's ass. The older girl was wearing grey, form-fitting jeans and a forest green tanktop that left her toned arms on display. The hair near her temples was braided back, but Lexa let the remainder of her curls tumble across her back. 

Ugh. 

Some people were far too hot to be so unaware of it. 

Clarke had kept her outfit from earlier, adding a cut-off leather jacket and winging her eyeliner. 

Crawling behind Lexa over the arches and divets was easy enough, but once they reached the front, there was an unforseen problem. 

Two stories up, and the gutter tapered off over the back-end of the house, so how the heck were they supposed to get down? 

Suddenly, Lexa was standing up, black combat boots gripping the edge of the roofing, before she jumped. And Clarke had to slap her hand over her mouth to hold back the scream as she scurried forward and peered over. 

The brunette was tangled in a hedge, kicking furiously to free her legs and pushing her way to the ground. After a minute, her face turned up, moonlight shadowing her features as she waited expectantly for Clarke. 

This is one of those things you hear from your mom growing up: if everyone else jumps off a bridge, do you? 

And the answer was, hell yes, especially if there was a pretty girl at the bottom whose cheekbones could sculpt a fucking mountain. 

Clarke stood on shaky legs, judging the distance between her and the hedge, and jumped. 

Sharp branches tore at her clothes and skin and dipped under her weight, but held. She felt strong hands grip her shoulders and heave, tearing her away from the bush and onto the damp yard. She landed on her ass. 

Her hair was sticking up at odd angles, and she brushed her fingers through it in an attempt to tame it, picking out several leaves in the process. Lexa stood impatiently next to her looking altogether unaffected, of course. 

They set off down the sidewalk, walking close enough so that their hands would brush occasionally, Clarke resisting the urge to jump away every time, and Raven's Jeep came into full view, the Latina sticking her head out the window and grinning at them. 

Finn Collin's house was located in Sherwood as well and Raven was speeding like a madman, so they made it there in a couple minutes. Clarke could feel the bass from her seat in the vehicle, and she could definitely hear the drunken hollers. She glanced to the side to find a very nervous-looking Lexa, and the thought that maybe Lexa had never been to a highschool party crossed her mind. 

A rush of guilt. 

She smiled as warmly as she could at the brunette and impulsively reached out to grab her hand, leading her from the Jeep and through the crowd of people in the front yard. Lexa's hand was smooth, her fingers long, her grip light. The blonde was fairly sure her own hands were a little sweaty, but didn't dwell on it. 

The whole atmosphere changed as they stepped inside. 

The smell of alcohol and body odor permeated the air, the music reverberating and shaking the walls, the crowd thickening. It was a nice house and Clarke knew Finn came from a wealthy family, but Solo cups littered the floor and there were noticeably broken pieces of furniture around the living space. Raven sure knew how to pick her parties. 

Clarke weaved between teenagers, some throwing her provocative looks and others too intoxicated to notice the artist at all. She dragged Lexa behind her, clinging to her like a lifeline. She wasn't about to let the brunette get lost among a throng of strangers. 

Octavia was outside the kitchen flirting obnoxiously with a football player, and Clarke spotted Raven glaring jealously from her seat near the alcohol cooler. Her and Lexa approached, and she grabbed them two beers, handing one to the brunette before patting Raven on the head sympathetically. 

They were in for a long night. 

*

Everything was moving in slow motion. 

They had moved from beer to the harder stuff, Raven innocently offering to play bartender and wiggling her eyebrows at Clarke when Lexa wasn't paying attention. 

At some point in time both her and Lexa were drunk enough to link hands again and stumble to the dance floor, swaying wildly. Lexa's laugh was infectious. 

The brunette leaned forward and brought her lips to Clarke's ear, hot breath sending shivers down the artist's spine. 

"I'm having a really great time," she said. 

Clarke's mind worked through the statement slowly in her stupor, and she smiled lopsidedly. "Me, too. You're not as much of a bitch as I thought when I met you." 

Lexa giggled adorably. 

"And you're not a prissy rich girl." 

Her arms seemed to move on their own accord, wrapping around Lexa's neck, the taller girl's skin dark in comparison. Her fingers played with the soft curls there, and she leaned her forehead on Lexa's shoulder. 

It was suddenly very hot. 

Clarke detached herself and her eyes locked onto the open door to the back porch, which was mostly vacant. She removed her jacket and tied it around her waist, gracelessly crossing the space to the exit and hoping that Lexa was close behind her. 

The outside was cooler, but not by much. Alabama had this sticky texture to the air that never seemed to go away. 

Her head was spinning and pounding at the same time but it was exhilarating being in an unfamiliar setting with a largely unfamiliar girl, completely senseless. The blonde turned around, elbows supporting her on the wooden railing. She couldn't tell if Lexa was too drunk to stand still or if she was too drunk to see properly. 

The alcohol in her body was heavy, now. The mood was somber. Lexa's eyes focused, unfocused, and focused again, settling on Clarke's jawline. 

An olive-toned hand reached out, thumb and index finger lightly tracing the side of the artist's face. 

She didn't know when or how it happened, but Lexa was flush against her body, Clarke's palm resting on the girl's abdomen through her shirt. She could feel the muscles tightening underneath her touch. 

Clarke was inexplicably being drawn forward, and Lexa's free hand wrapped around to cup the back of her neck. 

They were in their own little bubble, the conversation and music around them lowering; the only thing she was aware of was her own uneven breathing and the throbbing of her pulse. 

Clarke's eyes fluttered shut as Lexa's nose brushed her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
